Saturday Rain

With legs crossed as the lotus grows,
Upon a plaid of Scottish thread,
Thou color’st a camel in pinks and blues,
Whilst I devour a plum yogurt’s bed.

The rain pours down, both near and far,
Through every home, the land doth weep,
And here we lie, our arms ajar,
Kicking the remnants of a pine cone heap.

'Mongst sounds and hues, I smile and drift,
Lost in the hum of the television’s light,
Though thou know’st not how to silence its gift,
'Tis thou who watch’st me grow tonight.